


future feels a long way off

by a financial diuretic (Shame_Account)



Series: i've seen 2 whole episodes of Suits don't ask me how lawyering works [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, M/M, Medication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, You can pretty much ignore the Ham/Wash pre-slash and read this as a gen standalone if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6574357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shame_Account/pseuds/a%20financial%20diuretic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex can deal with an unmedicated weekend. Plus today. It's not like this is a first.</p><p>The storm rolls in at around three in the morning, because of course it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	future feels a long way off

Work for the rest of the week following the Incident with the protesters is shockingly normal. It starts on a high point – Angelica pausing at his desk to ask, without so much as a wink, if he's feeling better – and then descends into a routine ordinariness that sets Alex's teeth on edge.

It's almost a relief when the pharmacy and his insurance, in a rare display of teamwork, jointly fuck up his prescription.

He spends Friday afternoon valiantly not yelling at people whose fault it isn't, sending the politest emails he can manage to the people whose fault it is, and breaking his own self-imposed _absolutely-no-tumblr-at-work-you-know-how-you-ARE_ rule for the sake of redirecting any explosive frustration away from his coworkers and into the abyss of The Internet.

* * *

_if someone does something nice for me and my instinctive response is "go fuck yourself," does that say more about me or about him?_

**_#maybe i dropped the pencil on purpose chuck #maybe i wanted you to trip on it and die #all i said was thank you someone be proud of me #chuck the lawyer: the ongoing saga of my 2nd least favorite coworker_ **

* * *

He wins, in the end. Mostly. His refill is delayed until Monday, but it's not going to cost the arm and leg that his copay has been trying to turn into. So. He can _deal_ with an unmedicated weekend. Plus today. It's not like this is a first.

Saturday is fine. He spends most of it online, under a blanket, to avoid snapping at John. 

* * *

_**roommate:** do you want some water_

_**me:** fuck off_

_**roommate:** *leaves*_

_**me:** wtf why did he leave_

**_#it's just a really enthusiastic version of 'no thanks' ok_ **  

* * *

The withdrawal dreams start that night – not the worst he's had, nothing compared to the stretches between different medications when he was still figuring out what to take and whether he wanted to take anything at all.

He dreams about a car crashing into their apartment. Everything is vividly, irritatingly _bright_ , and the point of view keeps switching: he's the driver, he's pinned under the car, he's himself, he's John, John's the driver _while_ he's being him, he's a third party watching it all like a television show, and there's never any progress.

It's not even scary, until he wakes up, and then his heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest. 

* * *

_why a car crash though? never been in one, no phobias about cars, haven't even seen any movies or anything lately with car crashes_

**_#step up your game subconscious #alternatively take it down a notch subconscious you have stepped up too far please stop stepping up_ **  

* * *

Sunday night, he makes an executive decision: "I'm just not gonna sleep."

John just looks at him. Sighs. "Okay."

Alex glares. "I'd rather work on no sleep than bad sleep."

"Okay."

"I'll stop by the pharmacy on my way to work tomorrow morning and then everything'll be  _fine_."

"Yep." John opens their sad little mini fridge, makes a face at the milk, and pours it down the sink. "Milk is not supposed to look like cottage cheese, for future reference."

"This works better when you argue with me."

"No, it doesn't. I tell you to sleep, you tell me to fuck off, you don't sleep, and nobody wins."

"Exactly! We have a routine, John! Work with me here!"

"Go to sleep, Alex," John says, voice flat, and disappears through the beaded curtain dividing their two beds.

"Fuck off," Alex calls cheerily after him.

It's not quite three in the morning when the storm rolls in. Because of course it fucking does.

* * *

_me: ok one night of almost disappointingly bland anxiety dreams + mild irritability?? easiest withdrawal ever_

_weather: haha well actually,,_

**_#fuck my life fuck everything #delete later_ **  

* * *

By 6 am, the thunder and lightning have stopped. The rain comes and goes, can't seem to make up its mind, and Alex has been sitting perfectly still in the center of his bed for the past three hours, trying to convince himself he's not freaked out.

John almost stays home from work.

Alex opens his mouth to argue and can't get any words out. Gritting his teeth and growling, he picks up his phone instead.

_All that's gonna happen if you stay here is we're gonna yell at each other and I'm gonna hate myself._

"Alex–"

" _No_." _go to work i am FINE_

"You're not."

_i will BE FINE_

They stare each other down. John blinks first. Sighs like he'd rather be yelling. "Hugging, good or bad?"

Alex shrugs, which means: Good, but I'm not gonna _ask_.

John hugs him. And says, "If you go to work today, I will murder you."

"Hippocratic Oath."

"You could've broke Hippocrates."

"Compliment."

"You go ahead and think so."

And then he's out the door.

Alex stares down at his phone and tries to imagine calling in sick. His throat starts closing up at the thought. Terrific.

He pulls up Washington's number, rereads their last conversation. Tries to think rationally about this situation and knows he's failing. Knows this is probably a bad idea, but it's hard to make himself care. Everything feels – distant. Disconnected. Any problems he causes for himself here are his future self's to deal with, and that future feels a long way off.

He starts typing.

_Hey I'm kind of banking on you being a Cool Boss here uh. is "ongoing anxiety attack" a valid reason to miss work, or at least come in super late? if not, please forget i asked, i can't come to work because my apartment is On Fire._

**Are you okay?**

(That was fast. That was _really fast_ , shit, why is that weird? That's not actually weird, right?)

 _oh yeah this is just a fuckin hobby i have_ (backspace) _not really???_ (backspace) _Will be. I can get stuff done on computer at home but i will be the opposite of productive if i come in right now._

**Stay home. Take care of yourself.**

_Thanks. this doesn't happen often I promise. lot of bad timing. i'll come in later if i can._

**Get some rest, Alex.**

He stares down at his name in that last text for a long time before he even fully realizes it's there.

He checks the time. Sets an alarm. Pharmacy opens at 9. He lies down and doesn't sleep.

Gets up, gets dressed, packs his computer bag, walks to the pharmacy in a light drizzle and repeats under his breath, "Go to the pharmacy, go to work. Go to the pharmacy, go to work."

He stands in line for ten minutes under too-bright lights and knows he's shaking, knows people are looking at him. Calmly reassesses the clothes he put on and affirms to himself that yes, he is wearing a perfectly respectable suit, and coat, and no he didn't accidentally put on two different shoes, there is nothing to stare at, there is nothing to stare at.

He pays for his refill and dry swallows two pills before he's even back outside. Never the best idea but he doesn't _care_ , come on, instant placebo effect, _please_.

The rain is coming down in sheets again. He stands under the downpour and thinks _I should have brought an umbrella, why didn't I bring an umbrella we own like twenty_  and _I have done zero work today_ and _Fuck I really have to piss_ and _I am not drowning, I am_ _ **not**_.

He holds his prescription against his chest (because he can't open his computer bag in the rain and he can't go back inside just to put it away he _can't_ ) and walks back home. Forces himself not to run. _I am not drowning._

Home, safe. Good.

Bathroom. Okay.

Water. Okay.

Food.

 _Food_.

He should eat something, he should definitely eat something, he already feels nauseous; these pills are hell on an empty stomach but just the _thought_ of food is making him gag.

He changes back into sweatpants and T-shirt, hangs up his suit and coat. Removes his phone from his coat pocket and stares, again.

**Get some rest, Alex.**

"Bossman's orders," he says to nobody, and giggles, and then takes deep breaths until the laughter stops because there is hysteria trying to bubble up through it.

He lies down.

He sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> this is continuing to happen, apparently
> 
> this one will probably stay as a standalone. i'm not really sure where the series is going from here, but that's been true this entire time lol.
> 
> i'm leaving alex's actual prescription up to reader interpretation but: zoloft withdrawal is a wild ride ok


End file.
